


and stay awhile

by nairwal



Series: Commissions [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Nature, Post-Canon, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairwal/pseuds/nairwal
Summary: They travel to Surrey on a Sunday morning whim.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Commissions [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744447
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	and stay awhile

**Author's Note:**

> Completed as a commission for my lovely friend. Hope you like this. 
> 
> Title inspired by the lyrics of Patrick Watson's song _Sit Down Beside Me_. Lovely little tune.

They travel to Surrey on a Sunday morning whim. Crowley—atypically animated in his plans for the day—had suggested their visit to the botanical gardens over two steaming hot cups of tea. Aziraphale would have never been able to turn down seeing the cowslip flowers in bloom and thus, here they are.

The trail around the gardens has been worn from consistent footfall, stones and gravel crunching beneath shoes as they do just now, Aziraphale and Crowley meandering around the greenery side-by-side, fingers catching every so often, taking in the vibrance of the flowerbeds and the height of the weeds with an interest that they, for once, perhaps, seem to share.

That very matter Aziraphale cannot help but dwell on—Crowley must be up to something. Nothing sinister, oh no, Aziraphale knows him far too well to assume that, but he is most definitely hiding something behind his plans of today. 

“This is… nice.”

An eyebrow raises of its own accord. Aziraphale casts a glance toward Crowley; red hair longer, tucked behind his ears, resting at the base of his neck. His skin is a beautiful peach in the mid-Autumn sun, eyes hidden behind his spectacles. Even still, Aziraphale can tell he is averting his gaze—avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes even as they continue to traverse the grounds.

“It is, my dear.” Aziraphale plucks a flower from a passing bed, a round-headed rampion, gorgeously blue and in blossom, and smirks inwardly at the remorseful expression that briefly passes Crowley’s face. Such a darling that he is, mourning the death of a flower. “I’m ever so glad you suggested it. I’d have had us drink tea until sunset.”

Crowley presses his lips together, smiles. “Nothing wrong with that, Angel.” He casts his eyes around, looking for something. Aziraphale pretends not to notice. For Crowley’s sake, of course. “Say. Would you like to see the pond? They have a new collection of marbled newts in habitation.” He scampers off, taking long strides across the path, and then over the dewy grass, and gesturing with his hands in his typical theatrical fashion. “They’re quite strange looking things, you know. Camouflaged. Marbled!”

There really is little else to do but follow.

As it turns out, the newts are, in fact, both camouflaged and marbled, slithering around the sizeable pond in a murky blur of green and yellow. Crowley has perched himself like a gargoyle at the waterline, the toe of his boots leaning dangerously over the stone edge. Aziraphale rests beside him, slowly, carefully, legs tucked up behind himself. Their shoulders touch.

“See?” Crowley says, voice quiet. He extends a delicate hand out toward the surface of the water. “Marbled newts. Neat little creatures.”

“That they are.”

And—a short silence falls, but it’s comfortable. It’s warm, if such a thing could be. With the weather in their favour and the sound of nature surrounding them, it almost feels like they’re in another world. Just the two of them. The pressure at Aziraphale’s side increases—Crowley pressing in with his shoulder—and then goes altogether—Crowley leaning back, turning to face him. The emotions etched into the lines of his face…

Aziraphale watches him. Really watches him; takes notice of how his eyebrows furrow the tiniest fraction, how his bottom lip trembles before he catches it between his teeth. There has been near six millennia for Aziraphale to catalogue these tics, these expressions, but he would certainly love another six to do just the same.

The glasses are removed; tossed somewhere off to the side, a noise in the silence they’ve welcomed around them. It doesn’t break it, however. Crowley’s eyes are open and vulnerable now, fingertips cool where they touch Aziraphale’s cheeks, exploring, careful and terrified. With one hand, he pushes back Aziraphale’s curls, and with the other brackets his chin. He leans forward, angles his face.

They share a kiss by the pondside. Chaste, soft, an exchange of warm, stuttered breath and the barest hint of pressure. But then—their eyes catch as they part, something wordless is exchanged (a requited emotion, written so plainly in their faces)—and this time it is Aziraphale who closes the gap, whose hands find the skin of Crowley’s neck, hair becoming tangled around his fingertips. Two kisses turn into three, four. By the fifth and sixth, their mouths have opened, wet tongues have met, and hands have started to wander.

“Take me back to the bookshop?” Crowley asks, breathless and so, so beautiful. “Please?”

Aziraphale would be a fool to turn him down.

**Author's Note:**

> [Links to my blog and Ko-fi and so on.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairwal/profile) <3


End file.
